


Someone In The Crowd

by doinganap



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Actor!Phil, But it's good I swear, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Following dreams, M/M, Piano Player!Dan, and what i want to happen, but like it's not gonna be too many chapters so it won't be painful i promise, la la land but dan and phil, la la land spoilers i guess but there are some differences, maybe a lil angst, maybe updates on mondays, sardonic sons of bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9838001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doinganap/pseuds/doinganap
Summary: Phil's an aspiring actor with more than a few years of living in LA with no avail. Dan's a jazz pianist stuck in daydreams and a pile of bills. They see right through each other from the beginning but can they make their dreams come true together? aka the La La Land fic no one asked for





	1. another day of sun

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of my interest in la la land and dan and phil. my friend caitlyn likes it. i will try to update on mondays. hope you like it.

LA traffic is absolutely horrid. This is an established fact but Phil still finds it particularly irritating. It’s also particularly irritating when a driver swerves around him on the highway while blaring his horn. Maybe the driver is a little attractive in his convertible and windblown hair. Phil wouldn’t know. **  
**

He won’t admit it but he definitely stuck out his middle finger at the man.

He also won’t admit he is a bad driver. Nope he’s a great driver, don’t ask anyone but himself. He doesn’t even know how he can afford the broken down heap. Yes, Phil Lester is an amazing driver. Especially when he is learning a script found by one of his roommates through a questionable connection. Actually, Phil never questions who his roommates slept with. That’s their business. At least it gets him scripts.

It’s almost offensive how LA elects to be sunny all the time. The glare off of unclean cars and buildings is ghastly when you’ve just woken up. Phil’s skin can’t handle it. Laptop screen glare is enough light for him.

Adding to his plight of living in LA, he’s pretty sure his shirts will never stop smelling like spilt coffee. The bustle of the studio lot doesn’t rest, especially in the studio lot’s knock-off Starbucks. There’s suburban moms dragging their families in and out of the cafe and stressed personal assistants and confused foreigners and rush hour at all times. But back to the spilt coffee. It’s everywhere.

There goes his navy floral button down. There goes his stegosaurus jumper. There goes his vaguely illuminati-inspired white shirt. The list goes on.

It’s a bittersweet starstruck when the film stars come in for their drinks instead of their personal assistants. They’re all tall and poised and cool and shiny. Decked out in sunglasses worth more than the cheques Phil gets every two weeks. Tailored suits and dresses. Sharp cologne and red lipstick that somehow doesn’t stain clothing. Worth millions more than Phil. It’s dazzling really.

“Two non-fat lattes please,” says gracious smile under perfectly done makeup.

The lady scowling at him will have to wait for the star. “Uh. Oh, yes.”

It takes approximately two minutes too long to make the simple order -- not as extravagant as some of the tourists’ orders if he was being honest. Phil’s all shaking hands and mumbling that it’s on the house. He’s handed ten dollars extra and is told to keep the change. Phil can feel the manager staring daggers in between his shoulder blades so he deposits the change into the communal tip jar. Not that Phil thinks the manager pockets most of it but he does.

Phil wistfully watches the golf cart and its precious cargo turn around the bright corner before the droning of the red-faced woman gets his attention again.

That’s his life. It’s the white walls and wooden chairs and annoyed customers on the studio lot Phil would much rather be working as an actor on instead of a barista. That’s the real dream. That perfect lighting and directors and cinematographers and fellow actors. When he called his mom the first week he moved she fondly said it’s just a foot in the door. The foot in the door that’s lasted about six years. He can’t even hear the fake smile on the end of the line anymore.

Oh, and there goes his crisp white shirt for his audition. And _shit_ what was the time.

“I have to go, Janice.”

“Your shift’s over already? It’s rush hour, Phil.”

“We talked about this last week. I have an audition.”

She shot Phil a dirty look. A wry, “Good luck,” and Phil was out of the door.

Out of the door with an ugly coffee stain that stuck to his stomach which didn’t feel like coffee which made him feel all the worse. It’s not the morning after -- it’s more embarrassing. It’s fine. He has a winter coat from his days in Manchester in his car because normal people in LA carry parkas with them all the time.

It’s truly, absolutely, wonderfully fine.

* * *

“Jessica… it’s completely fine. We’ll get to the airport on time… Oh… Really?” Phil was tearing up for dramatic effect, silently basking in how well he thinks the audition is going. All the right pauses and breaks in his voice. And he hasn’t messed up his lines yet. Not dropped the fake cell phone they told him to talk into. The casting directors seem at least a little intrigued. Or at least they aren’t sleeping yet like that one time. “Yeah… No, I’m so happy for you… Yeah. I just --”

“Someone order some subs?”

Phil turns around to see a hurried PA knocking past his shoulder and placing a tray of sandwiches on the casting directors’ desk. He’s pretty sure his mouth is open in shock and the tears in his eyes have been blinked away. He uncertainly brings the cell back up to his ear, blanking on the words. His ears must be burning red. Phil’s too pale for this.

“I think we’ve seen enough today. Thank you.”

Phil’s throat has an ache at the back of it as he power walks past the aisle of men dressed similar to him in unsoiled white button downs and black slacks. And black hair and blue eyes. Open casting calls remind him of how mediocre he is in every single way. The elevator ride down is vague 70s music and the air of false confidence in his companion’s audition. It’s stifling so he unzips the parka and revels in his sticky stomach. Phil knows the open casting call won’t actually take anyone that showed up. It will be the fresh face off of a romcom or b-list tv show. It’s been six years. Phil knows the ropes by now.

* * *

Phil’s key doesn’t actually work in the old lock to his thin house. There are at least three people in the house at all times and five rooms occupied at night, God bless. He always has company. The walls are plastered with peeling patterned wallpaper that must have looked quite cheery when it was put up twenty or more years ago. He does have to give his roommates some credit though. Their colorful decor does not go unnoticed and neither does the lovely golden pig sitting in front of the unused fireplace. One (or two or more) night stands have stopped asking.

There’s a chore wheel in the kitchen but everyone just keeps their rooms clean so it doesn’t really matter. Who cares if there are two years worth of crap littering the halls? Phil really doesn’t know if the kitchen is in use and he would rather not find out. Phil’s room is at least orderly. There might be more than five socks in shadowed corners but Phil shushes anyone that mentions it.

“There’s a party tonight,” someone bounces onto his bed.

“There’s always a party, Peej. It’s LA.” The same requests come in every other night. How are you supposed to make connections if you don’t go to parties? Phil doesn’t go to the majority. He also doesn’t know how he and his roommates get into the parties. There’s always at least one tux and five couture dresses that don’t make sense. Phil doesn’t understand fashion so he’s not one to judge. He’s pretty sure it’s who they sleep with that gets them in. But once again, he doesn’t question who they sleep with.

“C’mon! I heard at least five script writers are going to be there.”

Phil glances at the notebook he has more than a few half-scripts written in. “Yeah, there’s always script writers. What’s new?”

“Phil,” PJ dragged out his name long and pleading. “Well. How’d the audition go at least?

Phil flopped face first onto his bed.

“Oh. One of those.”

“When is it ever not one of those?”

“Then let’s go out and party and forget about the stupid casting directors.”

A head pops past the door. “There’s a party?” Phil can hear the rest of the house rousing for a night out. Mention the word party and they’re all rearing to go, damn bad days and spilt coffee. He does not know what half of the jobs of his roommates are but there has to be more than two baristas.

Muffled in colorful pillows Phil mutters, “Fuck off.”

PJ doesn’t stick around and instead goes to find a better shirt by rifling through Phil’s drawers. “This my shirt?”

“Maybe.” There’s a whack of a pillow to Phil’s head and then silence in his room. He turns, shirt wrinkling uncomfortably. Phil didn’t expect LA to be work and parties but that’s what his life had become as soon as he set foot in LAX. It wasn’t acting gigs or exciting stories, it was droning directors and self-important scripters. Of course there was always the off chance the party could lead to Phil’s big break. Someone in the crowd to sweep him into the world he’s dreamed of. It never happens but it’s a nice thought as he stares at his blemished ceiling.

PJ’s left his shirt on Phil’s bed. It’s a nice maroon with white buttons and dots placed sporadically around it. The clatter of keys and the shuffling of his roommates interrupt his thoughts. Maybe a party wouldn’t be that bad.

* * *

It sort of is that bad. **  
**

The house is a few million dollars at least but the champagne is mediocre at best. Women with bad ombre dye jobs and men in cheap slacks keep hitting on Phil no matter where he sits. PJ and his friends have disappeared to tap into the abundant variety of people parties like this provide. There’s a swimming pool reflecting aquamarine onto the walls -- really the only redeeming quality of this night. It’s pretty. Phil’s likes how the lights in the pool refract onto his translucent skin and make everyone look like some intergalactic being. It’s cool.

The only thing accomplished had been getting slightly tipsy and getting towed at midnight because he didn’t see the no parking sign. Because of course this is his luck. It’s midnight and Phil had flopped his audition and the party sucked and his car had been towed. Phil’s got some choice words for the universe but he instead he decides to trek home.

Funny how the day can be hot as balls and yet, once the sun’s gone, Phil’s pretty sure he’s got goosebumps lining his entire body. This is no place for a short sleeved button down -- nature is the enemy. Moonlight’s flooding the street but he couldn’t care less. You can’t see the stars in the city. It’s all light pollution. Phil’s used to it by now. He just doesn’t look up anymore.

It’s velvet piano playing wafting into the streets that draws him in. There’s passion behind the notes and Phil can feel it. It’s heat and emotion and tapped directly into Phil’s bloodstream. Also he’d rather be in a warm restaurant than the streets that he could be mugged in. Six feet or not, Phil was still mildly afraid leaving the house. He’s lanky and bruises don’t look good for auditions.

But back to the piano music.

Phil doesn’t know much about the logistics of playing but he knows when he likes a song. It’s more about the feeling and music behind the lyrics for him. The words don’t mean anything if there aren’t the correct instruments to back up the emotion. Phil likes when the vibrations of the song show exactly what the artist means. It feels more real than words.

So that’s how he finds himself watching a man furiously playing the piano in a restaurant hung with fairy lights, fake plants, and only people over fifty years old. The overhead lights are faded as if it’s supposed to be romantic. Phil thinks it’s cheesy. It’s a slow night but maybe that’s because it’s half past midnight.

He’s young. Brown hair bouncing to the notes and a lip bit in concentration. Cheeks blushing with exertion and maybe a bit of pride. Long fingers spelling out expressions Phil can’t put his finger on. Long legs moving to press on the pedals with practiced ease. He’s pretty. More than. Objectively, of course.

The playing is over too quickly and the man quickly stands as if expecting applause. No one sees this but Phil. The man’s breathing a little erratically and what looks to be his manager approaches him. A few hushed tones later, something about Christmas music, the piano player is unceremoniously dumping all the tip money in the glass fish bowl resting on the mini grand into his backpack and putting on a coat. He’s ruffled and it’s more than a little adorable, but the dark look on his face makes Phil a little hesitant.

The words Phil doesn’t know are caught in his throat and he just wants to let the musician know that he heard, that he cared.

“I loved your --”

A shoulder banged rudely into Phil’s and there was a breeze where the door had swung closed.

Well.


	2. A Lovely Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate has it Dan and Phil will meet again in the City of Stars (or the La La Land fic no one asked for which I am not continuing but rather posting the rest of what I have).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so i've decided not to carry on with this fic due to the fact that i don't feel passionate about it anymore. i feel as if i should spend my energy on things i am excited about and i just don't feel that with this fic. i just decided to post the last bit i wrote before deciding to stop. i will be posting other fics soon but just not this one.

Phil doesn’t want to go to the party where there is a pool and lots of alcohol and no swimming and no good conversations but there he is talking to a script writer that has touched his arm too many times to count. Sounds about right.

PJ’s claiming it’s a more refined party as it is during the day. Mimosas instead of beers and all that. There’s a terrible and vaguely 80s inspired tribute-to-who-knows-what band playing in the background and the same sleazy crowd. Phil really shouldn’t have expected anything different. 

And there’s another script writer barely glancing Phil’s knee with his hand and it’s not exactly comfortable but sometimes Phil thinks he could do worse. That’s never a good mindset. He really doesn’t want to hear this guy’s fever dream of an intergalactic romance another second longer so he politely excuses himself for some fresh air. It’s a hard no.

Fresh air means watching the terrible 80s tribute band, apparently. A few bubbles of satisfaction fizzle in Phil’s throat when he sees the pianist. It’s that dick from months ago that played really fucking well.

The guy isn’t even playing traditional piano but a synthesizer and he’s in these awful baggy 80s clothing. It’s bright neon and the complete opposite of the look on the man’s face as he taps out a few chords. Phil bites the side of his mouth when he realizes this guy’s potential is definitely not being showcased. But he was still a dick so --

“I would like to request a song?” Phil’s grin is wide and haughty as he makes eye contact with the piano player.

The head of the band seems more that overjoyed at some audience interaction. “Yes! Of course.”

“It’s not exactly an 80s song though.” Phil’s trying so hard not to laugh.

“Go ahead, I’m sure we can manage.”

Phil sees the piano player roll his eyes. “Yeah. I would like ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears.”

“Comin’ right up.”

It’s difficult for Phil not to laugh the whole song -- he makes it about halfway through before letting out a gasp of laughter. He’s the band’s only audience and the singer doesn’t exactly know the words and Phil can see piano guy seething in his baggy track pants and only pressing a few chords the entire few minutes of the song. It’s quite satisfactory.

The party continues to drag but at least Phil’s had a bit of fun. He can tell the band has stopped playing and instead the same ten tinny pop songs are on repeat on a bad stereo set. PJ hasn’t answered any of Phil’s texts and he just hopes to god that he’s not taken the car with a passenger that’s not Phil. One or two or five too many times PJ has left Phil at a party just for a fling. Phil truly doesn’t know if he can afford cab fare back to the house.

Phil’s pulled out of his thoughts rather abruptly.

“How dare you make a serious musician play ‘Toxic.’”

“‘Serious musician?’” Phil rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

Piano guy tugs at his collar. “But really? Britney Spears?”

“It’s a good song,” Phil shrugs, smiling brightly at piano guy’s storm cloud face. 

“Yeah, okay. Says anyone without any taste.”

“I find liking songs like that adds to the flavor of a person.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m Phil. Phil Lester to be exact.”

“Dan Howell.”

They’re eyeing each other warily. It’s the first floor and it’s a pretty wide window. Some greenery is swaying in the spring breeze. The sun is about to blaze another sunset over the city. Phil’s pretty sure he can jump out of the window if it gets any more awkward.

On closer inspection, Dan isn’t that unattractive. (This was an established opinion from the first time they met but Phil prefers not to remember that.) Dan’s an asshole but Phil has a soft spot for assholes an inch or two taller than him and are really passionate about something. He fits the bill. Even if he is in terrible 80s clothing.

He’s still an asshole though.

“Well since I’ve lost my dignity as a serious musician, who are you to judge? What do you do?”

The question catches Phil a little off guard and his shoulders weigh a bit. “I’m an actor.”

Phil’s hand twitches to slap the smirk off Dan’s face. “Have I seen you in anything? Maybe a toothpaste commercial? Not with those English teeth, I suppose.”

Before Phil can get a word out the singer of Dan’s band hits him on the back. “Two minutes to our last set.”

“He doesn’t tell me what to do,” Dan looks a little ruffled.

“He just did.” Phil’s hiding his grin behind his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed <3 sorry it doesn't tie up any loose ends but it was gonna be similar to the movie anyways

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh so that's the first chapter! i've never done a chaptered thing before but i will try to keep consistent updates. feel free to leave comments or kudos or anything so i feel like people actually want to read this au ok thanks ily


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